


For Whom the Bells Toll

by InterNutter



Category: Church (Short Film 2019)
Genre: Blood, Canonical Character Death, Captivity, Gen, Violence, death ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21743413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InterNutter/pseuds/InterNutter
Summary: "Ask not for whom the bells toll," -- misquoted from John Dunn.Hratsek is old. He has forgotten too much. He has done too much. He is TIRED and he clings to life so that the fangless around him do not hurt any more children... like he once was a child himself when they Took him away. His life is ordered by the bells that sound. Bells to wake. Bells to kill. Bells to get up... or never get up again.One day, he will hear them ring no more.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 29





	For Whom the Bells Toll

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Toastyhat/Emptyfeet owns the universe, I just make a huge mess in her sandbox. Wheeee!

The bells woke him. They always had. He had been dreaming of his mother, calling him home. The distant fields were a hazy memory, now. He’d long since forgotten his mother’s face. He’d long since forgotten the name she used to call him by. He’d long since forgotten his language. All but one word.

_ Hratsek. _

That was what he called himself, now. He was no longer one of his people. He certainly wasn’t one of _ them. _ The fangless people who, though smaller than he was, held a power over him that he could not defeat.

So the bells rang, heralding another day in the arena. Another day of blood sticking in his fur and cold water seizing up his joints.

He moved them now, trying to loosen them up so that they wouldn’t betray him. The years weighed heavily on him, now. They wanted to keep him down.

He wanted to stay down. _ So _ much.

Just lie down and let death take him. Go in peace to whatever lay beyond for tattered souls like his. He had certainly spent his time suffering, and he was overdue some kind of reward.

Then he remembered the sight that greeted him when he arrived. A young creature like him… _ that face was burned into his memory, sharp and acrid and sour… _ pierced through by some weapon, an expression of shock and surprise still on his face.

He’d known then that these fangless ones would do that again to _ another _ child. So for the sake of everyone back home, he did everything they wanted him to.

The bells finished, and he wrestled his creaking body into position. On his knees. Arms behind his back. Each hand gripped around the opposite elbow. He didn’t fight when they came to bind him. He hissed and growled when they forced him to move faster than he could actually walk. Snarled when they hit him for stumbling.

Someone was talking. Old words. Forgotten words.

_ “Elder! Elder, what are they doing?” _

Sinking horror overwhelmed him. Almost made him drop, since his bad knee was acting up. He remembered a word. _ “Baby…” _

They had a child! They had taken another child! From his home, from his family, from everyone and everything capable of loving him. Tears blurred his vision for the first time in decades as the fangless ones pulled him away. They had another one!

He had protected his people for close to fifty years, all for nothing. They had another.

They hadn’t marked this new boy, just yet. They hadn’t made him into… whatever Hratsek was, now. There was still a chance. There was still a hope.

As long as _ he _ killed for the fangless, this tiny little baby wouldn’t have to.

When he entered the ring, he did his best to look stronger than he usually did. His best tactic, affecting a worse limp than normal, was no longer an option. The fangless had summoned the baby from his home and family because Hratsek was looking old and weak.

He didn’t deny that he was old. He was sure he had more years in him than they thought, and now he was determined to prove it. All to spare a child he knew was already doomed. For as long as he could.

The bonds dissolved and the first victim emerged onto the sands of the arena. One bell sounded.

Time to kill.

He wasn’t fast. He hadn’t been fast for twenty years. What he _ was _ was efficient. No showmanship, no posturing, no posing for the audience. They didn’t matter. What mattered was getting close enough and then slicing them open with claws, teeth, or horns. He rarely let the victims land a blow, and if he did, it was only so he could disembowel them.

One got a shot in at his bad knee and he went down with a cry. Damn it. Damn them. Damn _ him _ for letting them get at him. He knelt, panting, as he stared at the sands. The fangless in there with him was doing a victory lap.

The bells started to sound. Deep and resonant.

One… two… three peals.

Hratsek struggled to get back up, to spite his own pain. He wasn’t bleeding, but he was old. Old and creaky and getting up was always a chore.

Four… five… six…

He had seen one of the fangless preparing a knife, flanked by two with the light staves, the last time the count had got as high as eleven. He knew what they would do with all that if he failed to get up by twelve.

Seven… eight… nine…

He growled as he got up, bad knee a storm of pain that assaulted his entire leg. There was no affecting a limp, now. He could feel his bones grinding.

The fool in the arena with him charged. Hratsek intercepted their neck with his claws. One almost negligent swipe, and they were dead before they reached the opposite wall.

The crowd roared and chanted the name they called him. “Vox! Mons! Vox! Mons! Vox! Mons!”

They didn’t care if he felt pain. They didn’t care if he was weary. They just cared that he spilled fangless blood into the sands of the arena.

One after the other. Old. Young. Male. Female. Fat. Thin. Light. Dark… until the last ray of light left the sands and the bells sounded again. The show was over.

He had made it another day.

Hratsek lowered his knees to the sands and put his hands behind him. Let them bind him and lead him away. Let those brave enough heal his hurts as much as they could. Not that it mattered. He was as much scar as he was… whatever he was.

He knelt -painfully- by the alcove and angled himself so the freezing water would hit as much sticky blood as he could manage. There had once been hot baths, or had he dreamed them? Hot baths and perfumed soap and kind hands sluicing water over him. Kind hands that would comb him and dry him and hold him safe.

Smoke, now.

Shadows, now.

Nothing more than the dreams of an old monster who only knew how to deal death.

He limped back to his cage and dutifully ate the horrible stuff they thought was good food. He had tried to starve himself in the beginning, but they could control his body. Make it do things he never wanted to do. It was so horrible that he would do anything to avoid that sensation.

He had lived another day.

One more day that a child could remain innocent. Safe, at least, from _ all _ the evils of this place. Safe for today.

* * *

Seven such days. Seven such times he had been lead into the arena. Seven close calls with the bells. He got up at eight, at ten, at six… he struggled and fought to get back up. Always. Always fighting for one more day that the baby could live without seeing the arena sands. One more day where the child would be merely fed and contained. Instead of fed, made to kill, and kept in misery and torment. One more day where a child was not turned into a monster.

The bells had made it all the way to eleven, today. He’d fought and failed to rise… three times. On the fourth, he made it back up just as the twelfth bell sounded.

He had roared in pain, but the crowds didn’t care. The fangless only cared about seeing blood on the sand, which he had provided. The sun had left the sands and they had pulled him, bound, from the arena.

Hratsek grunted as he knelt at the washing alcove. His pains were getting worse, but he’d proven he could still fight… for one more day. He leaned against the alcove as he caught his breath. Forced himself to straighten up for the cold water…

...which was a long time in coming.

He turned his head, facing towards where one of the fangless with a bucket had always been. Looking in confusion down an empty hall.

That was when the knife bit deep into his neck. Hot fluid - his own blood, filled his windpipe as he choked and sputtered. He turned to face his captors in confusion. He had _ done _ everything they wanted. He had risen to fight again. Why?

“Dorme, vox mons. Dorme.”

The light dimmed, and the cold leaching through him stole the strength he had to keep him up. The water came at last. Too late. Too late to bring any kind of life back into him.

“Dorme,” said the voice.

He could hear his mother calling him, and for a blissful moment, he thought he could run to her if he could just see which way to run…

* * *

Pugnus wiped his blade clean and handed it off to a nun. “Fetch the young one,” he said. “You two, help me drag this thing to the via morte.”

He had been a handler for Thunder Mountain for twenty years, and his father for twenty before him. He would not cry over the death of a demon, for all that he had hesitated to cut him loose. The old monster had done his duty, been obedient and followed commands, right up until the end. Right up until they could no longer deny that he was useless to the Church.

He was cut free, now. His body so much meat to cool in the via morte before they chopped him up and fed him to the pigs like all the other sinners there. Pugnus didn’t weep for the sinners, he would not weep for the demon who killed the sinners.

He took the feet, so he would not have to look at that familiar, animalistic face. So he could pretend that he was holding the ankles of yet another sinner awaiting the final butchery. At least until they tossed the body into the holding area with all the other wastes of life and love.

He would not weep for a monster.

...not in public.

When no-one was looking, he bent down and closed Thunder Mountain’s eyes. “Sleep,” he whispered.

Pugnus pretended he had something in his eyes. Left others to see to the young one. Walked out into the night, and tried not to feel like his heart was breaking over a big, dumb animal like Thunder Mountain.

The executions would continue. A new man would be handling the new demon. He could retire to copy books in the scriptorium, or grow herbs for the apothecarium, or teach the little ones all about the True Way of the Saint. There was no need to weep.

And yet, the traitor tears kept coming, unseen in the merciful shroud of the night.

END!


End file.
